


like the stars chase the sun

by taywen



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Crack, Gen, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Canon, Speculation, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"But why would you be Empress?" Kirin added a few minutes (and another glass of wine) later.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Oh," Delilah said lightly, her left hand curling into a fist against the tabletop, "I'd have possessed her body and taken the throne and no one would be the wiser."</i>
</p><p>A series of meetings between disgruntled apprentices, before they left the fold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the stars chase the sun

**Author's Note:**

> I made a joke about Sokolov's apprentices turning into villains and then I imagined them getting drunk at a bar and bitching about Sokolov and then this happened. I'm sorry.
> 
> SPOILERS for information about Dishonored 2 from the E3 trailer or announced by the devs, so if you're avoiding those... probably give this fic a pass.

Kirin Jindosh was not stupid. He was one of Sokolov's favoured pupils - an _apprentice_ , as it were - and rather young to have joined the ranks of natural philosophers at the Academy besides. He admired Sokolov's intelligence and accomplishments, but sometimes he could not help but resent the man for his successes as well. Sokolov was at the top of nearly every field he put his mind to - most branches of natural philosophy, and art as well, among other things. It was almost incomprehensible to Kirin that a natural philosopher should spend so much time on _art_ but Sokolov remained successful in both fields so it made no difference anyway.

If Kirin could emulate Sokolov's success in natural philosophy alone, he would be content. To that end, Kirin had tried to emulate Sokolov in several other ways: he'd attempted portraiture (disastrous), affected a Tyvian accent (no one could understand him, apparently) and, briefly, considered growing a beard. He'd already come to the conclusion that he couldn't emulate Sokolov's impressive facial hair however- not without serious dedication that, frankly, might not even pan out. Kirin had decided that a distinguished mustache was vastly superior, in any case, and was already making great progress in that regard. Recently, it had started to resemble an actual mustache, not like something he'd forgotten to shave for several days (though in truth it was more like several weeks), which was quite heartening.

It was for this reason that Kirin had agreed to model for Sokolov's artistic protégés. It fed into his vanity, not that he would ever outwardly admit to such a thing, and had the added benefit of raising his esteem in Sokolov's eyes, so there had been no reason to refuse when the man offered.

It was, however, unexpectedly boring. Kirin was not an especially impatient person, but sitting in various positions at Sokolov's direction for hours at a time was hardly stimulating. Listening to Sokolov berate his apprentices for their mistakes was marginally more entertaining, but it reminded Kirin a bit much of Sokolov doing the same to him; not that Sokolov had occasion to do so often, and he scolded Kirin far less frequently than the other students at the Academy that had caught his interest.

There was one apprentice that caught Kirin's eye. A young woman around his own age, with short hair and an intense gaze. She would glance at him briefly before returning to her canvas, while most of the others studied his pose for longer periods of time and spent less on sketching or painting. Kirin had no way of knowing which method was more effective or correct, but the woman had yet to be berated by Sokolov, and in the privacy of his own mind, Kirin had decided that she was the most promising of the lot.

(That she was indisputably the most beautiful had little, if anything, to do with that assessment.)

At length, Sokolov dismissed the remaining apprentices, until only the woman Kirin had noticed earlier and Kirin himself were left. Kirin wondered if he was allowed to move when Sokolov rounded on the young woman.

"What is this-  _riotous_ colour scheme, Delilah?" Sokolov demanded, gesturing at the canvas wildly.

Kirin could only blink in surprise, forgetting to hold his expression neutral in favour of gaping.

"It brings life to the canvas," Delilah said, the first who had dared to contradict the master's criticism all day. She met his gaze squarely.

"You have talent, but talent is not enough! No one with any taste will want this garish mess," Sokolov said. "Developing your own style is important, but you must keep your future patrons in mind!"

Delilah's expression grew flatter with every word. "Perhaps," she said, "I would not want the patronage of such narrow-minded sheep."

Sokolov's face reddened. "Get out," he said. "Don't show your face here for a week! Why do I bother trying to teach such ingrates?" He muttered the last part as he stalked for the stairs. His footsteps echoed on the steps, fading as he ascended to the second floor of his strange house.

Delilah scowled at the canvas before her when Sokolov left.

Kirin considered following Sokolov, but the man was obviously in a foul mood. Best to leave him alone. He rose from the chair in the centre of the studio and circled around to examine the other canvasses. All of them were in various states of completion; even those that were more sketch than finished product were recognizably of him, which made sense. Kirin could not imagine Sokolov wasting his time on those without talent. He came to Delilah's last, and stopped.

Sokolov's description of her portrait was not inaccurate. Calling it _a mess_ had been a bit far, but the bright flares of colour were a great deal more chaotic than the comparatively staid depictions that Delilah's fellow apprentices had produced. The riot of colours drew his eye though, where the others had merely been- competent. Nothing objectionable, but nothing exceptional either.

"I like yours the best," Kirin said to Delilah, who had yet to move from her position in front of the canvas.

Delilah blinked - startled, perhaps - and glanced to him with a tight smile that had little to do with mirth. "As you should. Mine _is_ the best," she said with such complete confidence that Kirin found himself at a loss; how to respond to that? Delilah turned back to the portrait before he could think of a reply.

"There's still more I can do," Delilah said, before the silence could grow too awkward. Her elegant fingers were stained with paint, the nails coloured in some dark shade. She tapped the tip of her forefinger against her lower lip, the other arm wrapped around her waist as she considered the portrait. "This is not the extent of my art. I can go further..." Her voice was quiet, as if she spoke her thoughts aloud, uncaring for her audience.

Kirin lowered his voice as well, conscious of the open nature of Sokolov's dwelling. Their voices could easily be audible on the floor above. "Sokolov doesn't know everything. The old is always replaced by the new."

"Exactly," Delilah said, still staring hard at her work. "Out with the old, in with the new... Perhaps not now, but someday."

"Do you want to get a drink?" Kirin blurted out. He smoothed over his mustache self-consciously when Delilah looked at him, a quick once-over that left him feeling exposed. "I only offer because- I can understand the frustration of working for such an exacting man," he continued, trying to resist the urge to look away. Meeting her gaze fully was strangely difficult.

The tension broke when Delilah smirked. "I suppose I don't have anything else to do since I've been _banished_ ," she said, her disdain for the last word evident in her voice. "But you're paying."

"Of course," Kirin agreed, hoping he didn't sound too eager at the prospect. "I'm Kirin, by the way. Kirin Jindosh." He held a hand out for her to shake.

"Delilah Copperspoon," she said, her cool fingers gripping his hand firmly but briefly. She released his hand and cast a final glance at the canvas before walking past it, towards the main level of Sokolov's house.

Kirin followed, keeping pace as they returned to the entrance. "I know this place a few blocks away, closer to Kaldwin's Bridge..."

It would be the beginning of a pattern: they would see each other in passing and agree to meet somewhere to complain about their teacher every few months or so, and the ensuing catharsis would leave them better able to put up with Sokolov's overbearing attitude.

* * *

Delilah had already started by the time Kirin reached the Hound Pits, the chosen venue for their latest venting session, and she waved off Kirin's offer to get the next round. She was in a fine mood tonight, her pale cheeks flushed with drink and something else. Kirin couldn't place the emotion; not anger, exactly, but-

Delilah returned to the booth and passed him his glass; Kirin took a large sip, not wanting to get caught staring.

"Well, let's hear it," Delilah said, depositing the bottle of wine on the table before slipping smoothly into the booth.

Her hands were stained with paint as always, but it wasn't usually so thick. He studied her left hand, curled as it was around her glass, forgetting his resolve not to stare. The stain was a dark, uniform colour (again, unusual) though in no recognizable shape or design. It did seem vaguely familiar, however-

"Kirin," Delilah said, her voice still amused but with the slightest edge that hinted to her impatience. A smirk lurked around her lips when he glanced at her face.

"Pardon?" He winced as he said it, cursing his ingrained manners; a natural philosopher apologized for nothing.

That was apparently an acceptable response though, as Delilah seemed to grow more amused. "What's that uninspired hack done this time?"

"Outsider's eyes," Kirin said, too distracted remembering the latest offenses to notice the way Delilah smirked at the curse, "what  _hasn't_ he done? Ridiculous deadlines, impossible demands-"

"-forgetting commitments, insulting _true_ genius," Delilah continued, taking a healthy swallow of her wine.

Kirin followed suit, to distract himself from watching the bob of her throat. He slammed the glass down on the table once he'd drained it. "He said my final project was garbage!" Kirin snarled.

"That bastard," Delilah said with feeling. "He can't appreciate anything beyond his own limited point of view."

"Exactly!" Kirin said. "I worked on that project for _years_ and now he tells me it's worthless?!"

"He's probably threatened by your genius," Delilah added.

"Damn right!"

There was a pause as they both refilled their glasses.

"He threw out my latest portrait this week," Delilah said at length. Kirin gasped in outrage. "Too- chaotic, that was the word he used," Delilah continued, her face twisting into a sneer in remembrance. "Better than his stagnant efforts at the canvas!"

Kirin nodded gravely. His knowledge of art was limited, to say the least, but that mattered little to him at this point.

"How he gained the patronage of the Empress, I'll never know," Kirin said, and left that thought to sink in. He _did_ know why, of course: Sokolov's advances with whale oil alone were enough to guarantee his position, but he continued to improve upon the technology driving Dunwall into the future. Kirin poured himself another glass and started drinking that before he could contemplate the scale of Sokolov's success any further.

"If I was Empress," Delilah said, her voice lowered as she leaned forward, "I'd sack him in an instant. He's insufferable. Or have him shave that appalling beard, at the very least."

This struck Kirin, now on the far side of intoxication, as immensely amusing. Delilah leaned back, smirking, as he started to laugh. "Fuck, the beard," Kirin said, between laughs. He was secretly pleased to be vindicated on the subject of the beard: clearly, the distinguished mustache that he had chosen was superior.

"But why would you be Empress?" Kirin added a few minutes (and another glass of wine) later.

"Oh," Delilah said lightly, her left hand curling into a fist against the tabletop, "I'd have possessed her body and taken the throne and no one would be the wiser."

Kirin considered that. Even as far into his cups as he was, he decided not to comment; despite being an artist and a woman, Delilah seemed more likely to become a Final Boss than Kirin himself. He was a bit foggy about what _his_ role as potential future antagonist would be, but the differences in their ambitions were already plain.

Still, he couldn't let such a declaration stand unchallenged: "If I was the head of the Academy and Royal Physician, it would be because I used my clockwork automatons to defeat Sokolov's inferior technology and take the position for myself." He was still bitter about Sokolov vetoing his final projects. Mechanical automatons were obviously the way of the future, and Kirin intended to prove it. "Or," he continued with growing excitement as the idea occurred to him, "my clockwork automatons would have enabled me to put someone else on the throne, and they appointed me out of gratitude!"

Delilah looked at him blankly for several moments; Kirin took the opportunity to appreciate the sharp beauty of her face. Then she took a long drink and, upon realizing that his glass was not yet empty, Kirin did the same.

He would remember that night at the pub in a series of confused images afterwards: the triumphant flush of Delilah's face, laughing about Sokolov's beard, imagining himself with Sokolov's titles and prestige.

The strange mark ( _stains of paint_ , as his mind had stubbornly characterized them) would fade from his mind completely, like water rushing out to the sea.

* * *

Delilah's attention was mercurial at best; beyond their shared frustration from being Sokolov's apprentice, they really had very little in common. This wasn't usually a problem: they could rant about Sokolov for hours, and the amount of alcohol they imbibed on these rare occasions went a long way to glossing over any other differences.

Tonight, though, no matter how many drinks Kirin knocked back, he couldn't seem to reach Delilah at all. They'd met a few times since they'd discussed their hypothetical paths to the throne, and each time Delilah had seemed more remote. Now, there was a distracted air about her, even as they complained about Sokolov, as if her mind was focussed on events beyond tonight.

The lighting was dim at this end of the bar, and Delilah's striking features seemed even more severe cast in shadow. Her eyes burned with something Kirin couldn't begin to comprehend; he told himself it was the drink fogging his mind and preventing him from understanding. In truth, the intensity of her gaze made him uneasy, and the thought of fearing a woman was so preposterous that he only drank more to forget it.

"I've learned everything I can from that worthless philanderer," Delilah said. "The differences between us are clear; I already have what he covets most, so why should I bind myself to him any longer?"

Kirin blinked in confusion, thrown by the change of topic. Sokolov was responsible for the official portraits of Dunwall's elite, which would remain long after their subjects, and the artist himself, perished; he was lauded for his artistic talent nearly as much as for his technological advances. What other heights of artistic achievement awaited him? And how could Delilah have surpassed him in that regard?

Perhaps he voiced some of his thoughts aloud without realizing it, or perhaps it was merely obvious from his expression, for Delilah spoke without waiting for a conscious reply: "His noble patrons seek his favour for their portraits because he is _safe_ ," she sneered, as if security was a laughable desire. "Safe, stagnant; is there any difference? It's all so _tedious_. So _predictable_. That's why Sokolov will never have what he truly desires, while it was handed to me for free."

"Have you found another patron?" Kirin asked. He had the uncomfortable feeling that most of what Delilah had just said was beyond him, and he didn't like it.

"You could say that," Delilah said, "though it is not an especially recent occurrence." She finally looked at Kirin,  _really_ looked at him, for the first time that night. He resisted the urge to smooth his mustache, barely; he'd probably done it far too often already, even if she hadn't noticed. If she _had_ then it would only seem vain at best, and Kirin did not want to make that sort of impression.

"It would be a relief to step out of his shadow," Kirin said. He still had more to learn from Sokolov, but how much? Kirin was far beyond most of the other natural philosophers at the Academy; at this point, only Sokolov could teach him anything new.

"That's why I'm leaving," Delilah said. "I'm moving on. He may have helped me in the beginning, but now he only holds me back from true glory."

Kirin's mind stalled on _leaving_. If Delilah left her apprenticeship, what would they have in common? What purpose would there be to meet at various dark pubs to complain about their teacher? And, though he was smart enough not to even consider voicing this, what kind of glory could _art_ bring her? If she were a student of natural philosophy like Kirin himself, then he could understand, but the very idea was impossible: the Academy did not accept female students, after all.

"Leaving?" Kirin repeated; later, he would be embarrassed at the plaintive note in his voice.

"Yes. I'm leaving," Delilah repeated, her jaw set along proud lines. She didn't seemed worried about the prospect at all. "I've found another way. Found-" here her lips twisted into a brief expression of distaste, before smoothing back into fierce pride, "-someone else."

It was, objectively, in hindsight, a terrible move. Kirin was drunk enough (and worried enough) that he didn't particularly care at that point. He would never be able to explain the misfire of his usually sharp wits that prompted him to make such an egregious error. 

As far as kisses went, it was terrible. Delilah was unyielding when he clumsily pressed their lips together, off-centre and bumping his nose against hers. She shoved him back into his seat immediately, with a strength that Kirin wouldn't have expected from her.

"What are you doing?" Delilah said, fixing him with an unimpressed glare.

"I-I thought," Kirin stammered, his cheeks hot with embarrassment and shame. His thoughts had scattered in a thousand directions, _you fucked up_  the only helpful, coherent thought ringing through his mind.

"You're not my type," Delilah said flatly. With almost any other woman, Kirin might have pressed the issue, but the cold set of Delilah's face warned him off.

"Right," Kirin said, suddenly much less intoxicated than he had been moments earlier. His gaze slid off her, settling on the dingy wall behind her head. "I misread the situation."

Delilah stared at him for several heartbeats before turning her attention back to the bar and signalling the bartender. Kirin sagged, some intangible pressure lifting from his shoulders.

"I've had enough for tonight," Delilah said, when she had finished settling her tab.

Kirin considered offering to walk her home, or to the railcar stop, but the memory of her cold expression stopped the words in his throat. Instead, all he said was, "Good night."

Delilah muttered the same and walked out.

As soon as the door had closed behind her, Kirin ordered another round for himself. No time like the present to begin forgetting _that_ unfortunate encounter.

A few weeks later, Kirin would learn that Delilah had accepted the patronage of a prominent barrister.

 _Not your type_ , Kirin would imagine himself demanding, _because I'm too close to your age, or not rich enough?_

He would never see her again after that, so he'd never get the chance. Probably for the best; even in his imagined scenarios, Kirin couldn't forget Delilah's high ambitions and cold eyes.

* * *

Kirin seldom thought about Delilah any longer; for all he knew, she was one of the early victims of the plague.

People weren't terribly worried about the disease yet, comfortable in the knowledge that it seemed to afflict only the poor. But the masses were, Kirin knew, generally fools. Anyone could contract the plague. Perhaps Sokolov would find a cure; Kirin specialized in mechanics and engineering, not biology. He admired the man, yes, but not enough to turn down the opportunity to leave the plague-ridden city.

The son of a Duke was not as prestigious a patron as an Empress, but the Grand Duke was old, and Luca Abele had even hinted that an appointment to Grand Inventor of the Royal Conservatory was in the cards, if Kirin was as brilliant as he claimed - and he'd shown particular interest in Kirin's plans for the Clockwork Soldiers. It was fortunate, really, that Luca (as the man had insisted Kirin call him) was still so hung-up on his murdered younger brother that he still returned to Dunwall in search of answers, otherwise Kirin doubted his work would have come to Luca's attention at all, or at least so soon.

Kirin boarded the ship to Karnaca without looking back. He did spare a thought to wonder about Delilah's current whereabouts - she was the only one who had really understood his frustration with working for a man like Sokolov; his fellow apprentices had been too awestruck to speak an ill word for the Royal Physician - but only a thought, and only for a moment.

The roar of the lieutenant ordering the sailors to prepare to set off woke Kirin from his reverie, and he headed below to check on his equipment. Serkonos was a backwater compared to Gristol, and Dunwall in particular; if anything was damaged, Kirin shuddered to think what repairing or replacing it would be like.

Years later, Kirin would dream of the Void, and a twisted tree that spoke with Delilah's voice.

**Author's Note:**

> ("You kept that mustache all these years," the tree said, in a voice that sounded remarkably like Delilah at her most condescending. "Unbelievable.")
> 
> please forgive my shitty humour


End file.
